I have blowy new skirts
in the closet of my perpetual ramming

and your hamstring strung
from the wire tower. Damsel, you say

and hey, I'm neither
white nor wrought nor budding.

The handy switch of your choosing
shishes across my nether regions. It burrs.

Outside, the seconding of birds at swim in
the drastic weather of their own sewing.

A fold of no one's sheep, moist
and asleep.     The dew is more for them.

For us, there are crumblings
of gesso loaves. Then you mooned

the french doors this morning, and again, no
end. I am plucking ducks and boxing them in

the seemliest of maneuvers. Each feather
is a sort of shuffling, I think, your name.